Gone But Not Forgotten

For two weeks now I've been trying to think of a witty way of saying that I resigned from the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance. Nothing comes so I'll just have to be straight about it.

For months now I've felt an ever-so-insistent nudging from Spirit. The message was, "Hey! We've got other things for you to do. But you have to leave the SCCA." Unthinkable! I loved my job and had always seen myself working there well into my eighties at which point I would be taking a cab to and from The Seattle Home for Really Old Chaplains.

I knew that to ignore the urging of the Spirit was at my own peril, nevertheless, ignore it I did. But the Divine always wins. I have the Happy Problem of having many speaking engagements all over the country. In the past, I used Leave Without Pay to do this. But there is a new rule at the SCCA that doesn't allow that, so I found myself using all my vacation time to give talks until I got to a point in September where my boss said, "I can't approve this trip because you have no more vacation hours."

How could I not go to Dana Farber and Massachusetts General? My boss and I discussed the possibilities: keep my job by changing my status to per diem chaplain. I would lose all my benefits, but it would give me the flexibility to travel.

So I could do that or I could actually . . . resign. My boss and I agreed to think about it over the weekend.

All day Saturday I tried on the decision of staying on and somehow working out all this travel. I felt tired and anxious.

When I woke up on Sunday I said to myself, "Now I will try on the decision of resigning from the clinic." I instantly felt as if I lost twenty pounds. I felt a heaviness leaving me. I heard the angels singing in their firmament,"What took her so lo-o-o-ong? We nearly had to kill her-r-r-r!"

Which was true because for the past two months I hadn't been sleeping and my heart would pound at night as I thought of all the things I had to do and then I was cursed with a Job-like gastrointestinal problem. Let me just say that if bathrooms were bars, I'd be considered an alcoholic because I was in one five times an hour.

So I resigned and cried my way through the week, including a very nice Good-Bye Tea that my boss arranged. I hated leaving the staff, my patients and especially my colleague Mia because we had Big Plans to redecorate that horrid little office we share. Even more important was that I was so looking forward to working with her and so we sat and just wept for a good hour in our office with the lights low so that it felt like a funeral parlor but without a dead body present. I realized that just because it was absolutely the right decision didn't mean it was not going to be hard as hell.

Then my sister arrived and we flew off to Boston. I did a reading and three talks and we walked the Freedom Trail and saw Paul Revere's grave and the Old South Church. But most magnificent of all was the historic Filene's Basement at which I found three beautiful bow ties for Wes which were marked down to $19.00. From $50.00!

I still can't believe I resigned as it hasn't felt like I'm not working because I returned from Boston and gave two more talks and have three more to go before the end of the month.

But here's the thing: just because I resign my job, doesn't mean I resign from people's lives. So I'm still in touch with many patients. More about that later.

And no, I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to do next . . .

Crazy Rich White People

From August 29, 2008

Today we continue our discussion of fashion, moving on from Crabby Rich White People to Crazy Rich White People. Please see the photo above.

As matriarch, we have the still attractive Lauren Hutton, she of the gap-toothed smile. Her clothes say what she’s thinking, “I’m comfortable with who I am—especially since they upped my Wellbutrin.” She is looking with great fondness at a miniature pony.

Behind her is her husband who is cooking corn and lobster on the grill. Clearly he works out. There is a big bag of charcoal near the grill which leads us to the obvious conclusion: the pony is next.

Two of Lauren’s grandchildren are wearing fairy princess dresses with wings. We can only hope they are her granddaughters because God help them if they are her grandsons. But that is not what makes them crazy—way over on the right is a kid with a trumpet. (Oh, sorry--he got cut off) Have they lost their minds? You’re giving a six year-old a trumpet? Why don’t you just give him a Howitzer?

The real mystery is the kid in the foreground with the black T-shirt and red devil horns. Is he the bastard son of one of those dudes in the back? Or of the patriarch??! Quelle horreur! Maybe he’s just one of those lonely kids from a neighboring estate whose parents are into Satan worship.

The fairy princess with the knitted Thug Hat is sitting on her mother’s lap. Clearly her mother is looking enviously at the pony’s bangs and thinking, “Oh, crap, I wish I’d had my highlights done.”

And you probably didn’t know this (how could you?) but that same woman always has a child or a dog or someone on her lap when she is being photographed because (I hope you’re sitting down) her hips and thighs are enormous. Seriously. Had all those kids and the weight just shifted. Pretty face—but truth be told, she’s built like a bass. (The musical instrument in front of which she is sitting—not the fish.)

And since I mentioned it—why does anybody but professional burglars and perhaps people who work on boats in freezing cold wear Thug Hats which I believe are also called Watch Caps? The only way they could be more unattractive is if the Thug Hat is way too big and then folds over and you look like one of the Seven Dwarfs. It’s a Fashion Don’t in my book.

Also—I have to ask—where are the black people? Are there no crabby or crazy rich black people? What about Michelle and Barack Obama? I’m not saying they are crabby or crazy, but I bet they are at times. Who isn’t? But I am saying they are rich. My prediction: after he is elected, we’ll see ads with more black people. You read it here first.

In fact, there was no one of color in Vogue. Honestly, I turned up ONE ad in Vogue with a black woman and she was with a white woman advertising Payless shoes! Those are cheap shoes!

So ends the lesson for today.

On Vacation!

08/28/08

Normally I strive to write something on this blog that is thought provoking, poignant or inspiring. But guess what? I’m on vacation, so the hell with that!

On Labor Day vacation we go to a funky, mildewy (but cheap) set of cabins on the Olympic peninsula. We started going here about 15 years ago because they take dogs.

Every year on this vacation I buy the gigantic hernia busting September issue of Vogue magazine, which after reading it, I use to work out my upper body especially after seeing all those pix of twig-armed models. And I don’t mean they are armed with twigs. But that is an intriguing image . . .

So today we leave behind the world of spirituality, cancer, existential meaning and discuss something really important: fashion!

More pointedly, models posing as Crabby Rich White People. Please look at the above photo and you will see what I mean.

What is wrong with these people?! They are wearing up-to-the minute fashionable clothes, they live in that mansion in the background, they appear to be in good health, and for god’s sake—they have dogs! Eight dogs! Seven Labrador retrievers (one is cut off) and what appears to be a Springer Spaniel.

How could you not be smiling with all those dogs? Especially the Spaniel. Those dogs can be nuts and totally hilarious. See how that guy is holding him with both hands? Probably because the Spaniel was jumping around like he had a chili pepper up his butt. I, myself, have seen Springer Spaniels run around like this and it’s very entertaining.

But do these people looked amused? No. They look angry, serious, snooty, smug and oh-so-bored with life. Maybe the tags on their panties are poking them. Perhaps they picked up a little giardia from drinking that pond water and they’ve got to get to a bathroom!

The grandmother has got the Queen Elizabeth thing going with the plaid coat and the head scarf, but you can tell she was a hottie in her time. She’s thinking, “None of these little bastards are getting my money. I’m leaving it to the Spaniel.”

And there are two horses! Everyone knows horses can be fun! But maybe they’re just visiting and that’s got everyone pouting and thinking, “If we only owned our own horses, then we’d be happy.”

What family is this? I do not think they are from Seattle although there are Canada geese in the pond and God knows we’ve got zillions of them here. Well, I don’t care who they are. I don’t like any of the clothes in this photos except for the fur coats.

And I like the one on the Spaniel the best.

Radio RVOG

Last weekend I flew to Colorado to celebrate the 70th birthday of a friend of mine. It was a six a.m. flight out of Seattle. It was a four hour car trip to the mineral springs. We pretty much all agreed we would not do this again for one weekend.

But all the travel gave us plenty of time to witness the Random Voice of God (RVOG). Like a "found" poem the RVOG is everywhere. We first encountered it at a toll bridge where we read the sign, PROCEED WHEN CLEAR.

That is good spiritual advice. We all noted it accordingly. Don't proceed if you have no clarity. Just wait. All shall be revealed in the fullness of time.


Trudy's birthday party was held at a spa famous for their mineral hot springs. One of the pools accidently got up to 120 degrees and we considered poaching chicken in it. But that was just another sign from the RVOG: STAY OUT OF HOT WATER.

That night as Trudy was handing out pieces of birthday cake, some edge pieces with lots of icing, some not, she asked Stacey, "What would you like?"

Stacey replied, "I'd like an inner piece."

"Wouldn't we all!" I shouted. But it was really the RVOG at the food fest reminding us that an inner peace is desired by everyone.

So I suggest put it out there to the Universe: I WANT AN INNER PEACE.

Where have you witnessed the RVOG lately?

Sand Through the Our Glass

Last month when my dad called to tell me my mom was in the hospital getting blood I just froze. I thought, "This is the beginning of the end." My stomach was in a knot the whole time I was on the plane.

I was surprised and relieved when I walked into her hospital room and she swung her legs off the bed and said, "When can I leave?" I forgot how getting blood perks you right up. But I did notice she looked older and a bit tired and I couldn't deny that she wasn't moving quickly.

My parents still live in the house in which I grew up. So of course I sleep in my old bedroom. But it no longer has the fabulous orange walls and flocked wallpaper I chose on my sixteenth birthday. And now there are picture frames for my mom's paintings all over the floor and there are paintings on every square inch of wall. Seriously, there is no space on the floor to put my carry-on suitcase. It's like sleeping in the storage room of the Metropolitan Museum.

I intensely dislike all of the paintings except one, and ironically, that one is hung behind the door. The one I like is a knock-off of a Thomas Kinkade. I like it because the colors are bright, like am Impressionist painting. All the others are these dark, Dutch Master-type paintings that she did while under the tutelage of one particular instructor who made everyone paint like him. I laid there in bed and looked at those paintings and thought, "If she dies before me, what am I going to do with these things?"

So in some ways it didn't feel like my room because of the hideous paintings, but when I turned off the lights, I could smell the jasmine that was growing just outside my window and when I woke up in the morning, before I opened my eyes, I heard the same birds chirping and it felt just like my old room and I felt just like the teenager I was when I left.

Then I got up and looked in the mirror.

Now I know that as humans, we are supposed to grow old and die. I talk about this with patients all day long. So you'd think I wouldn't be so shocked to see serious crow bars (they are way past crow's feet) and a downward droop to every part of my body. Tick, tick. Time marches on. If my parents are aging, that means I'm aging too. The sand is flowing through the hour glass--it's not just theirs, it's ours.

The beginning of the end? Or the end of the beginning? Perhaps there is no beginning and no end.

I'm going to go with that for now.

Grace Under Pressure

It's almost impossible for me to believe that I have not posted since June. But there was Wes's bike accident. My mom's GI bleed which required three pints of blood. My dad's prostate cancer diagnosis. My mom's surgery.

Every day during the entire month of June I whispered to myself: "Grace under pressure." I said this as I drove to the Emergency Room to be with Wes. Someone opened a car door as he was riding his bike. The corner of it went through his chest, broke some ribs, bruised his lung.

He had called me from his cell phone and I could hear the ambulance sirens in the background. "Oh, here they are," he said cheerfully. "I'll call you from which ever ER they take me to."

I had a great dinner ready: nice wine, marinated chicken ready for the grill, cheese and bread to start, fresh vegetables. He was five minutes from home when he hit the door.

When I got to ER I asked, "Oh, honey, what were you thinking about when this happened?"

"Dinner."

As many of us know, the ER ironically has a reputation for the slowest service in the world unless you have chest pain or are seriously bleeding. Wes said they made a big fuss over him at first and then nothing for hours. Finally a CT scan. "You have to stay overnight," they said.

I went home at 1 a.m. and behold! Someone left me a nice assortment of cheese and fresh bread! I had forgotten to put it away. So I ate some cheese and bread and opened the wine and drank a glass of that too. The whole time the dog is looking at me like, "What's with the new hours?"

It turned out they wouldn't suture the wound because it was considered "dirty" so Wes had to pack it twice a day with saline-soaked gauze. He was in a world of hurt for a few weeks, but yesterday, for the first time he went without any kind of bandage.

It's a miracle how the body knows how to heal itself.

More in another post about the urgent trips to California.

An Onion For Your Thoughts

I saw the onion goggles hanging on a display in the produce section of the grocery store. They promised maximum clarity and protection and would keep you from crying when you chop onions. But I saw them as potentially perfect bicycling glasses.
And I was right! When I arrived at work the next morning, my eyes weren’t teary and bloodshot. I was thrilled!

But a colleague asked, “Well, now what are you going to do when you chop onions?”

“Cry,” I answered, “And pray.”

I have always rejected any attempts to protect myself from onion tears—chopping them under water, burning candles or matches, freezing the onions before cutting. I don’t want to avoid the tears because I use that time to tap in to the pain of the world.

I imagine all the people on the planet besides myself, who are crying right at that moment. And as I chop, I cry in solidarity with them. I open myself to take on a little of their spiritual pain and I lift them up. I lift them up. This means I don’t pray anything specifically, I simply see all those crying eyes surrounded by a healing light.

So the other night as I chopped onions to sauté with my Swiss chard, I prayed for the people killed and injured by the cyclone in Myanmar. I lifted up the people running their military junta who are refusing—refusing!—international relief efforts.

I cried and prayed for the families in China who are suddenly homeless; whose children have had limbs amputated, whose loved ones were crushed to death.

I wept in awe at the woman who after days of being trapped, told her husband, “We must stay alive. There is a reason that we are spared.” Such strength and wisdom in the midst of so much pain.

My tears were also about the kindness, the generosity of international medical teams who are there struggling to provide care—in a foreign country. And suddenly I stopped praying in general terms.

I imagined myself there unable to speak Chinese. It wasn’t the goggles that gave me maximum clarity, it was my tears. So I prayed for the aid workers, that their lack of language skills would be supplanted by their ability to speak the language of love and compassion.

I prayed that they would have new reserves of patience, wisdom and understanding. I prayed that their hands would be strong and sure and gentle.

Ats we ate, my husband and I talked about these world disasters. At the end of dinner, he turned to me and said, “I loved the chard, but it was a little heavy on the onions.”

The Closer

Today I was the Closer.

In baseball the Closer is called in to clean up the mess of a game or to keep any gains from being lost. In medicine, the Closer’s job is similar—smoothing over sticky situations or tying up loose ends and saying good-bye. This can happen before a patient is discharged home to get well or before they are discharged home to die.

In the latter case, the Closer is not necessarily the doctor. It turns out to be the person who has the closest relationship, the most credibility with the patient. And sometimes the Closer is me, the chaplain.

The doctor, the nurse and the social worker had all told the patient she was going home to die but she didn’t believe them. I ran into her family in the waiting room.

“You have to tell her there is no more treatment left,” her daughter said. “Tell her the cancer has spread everywhere.”

But I knew that is not what I needed to say to make the patient understand she was going home for the last time.

I had known this lovely woman for the six years she had been treated for angiosarcoma, a rare vascular tumor. I never saw her without her wig and make-up. The first couple years it was easy for us to talk about dying and death. But as it happens with many patients, the less hypothetical death gets, the harder it is to talk about.

I sat down next to her bed and took her hand. “I have an agenda,” I said. This is exactly what I was trained not to do. A chaplain should never come in with an agenda and the focus should be on the patient’s needs and not the chaplain’s.

She squeezed my hand and smiled. “You’ve always been honest with me,” she said.

I knew that I didn’t have to talk about the futility of treatment, the extent of her cancer or multiple organ failure. She looked right at me so I seized the moment. “I’ve come to say good-bye.”

She was shocked. “Good-bye?”

“Yes. Years ago you and I talked about this day coming and it’s here now. So I want to thank you for all our wonderful conversations.”

She blinked, still unbelieving. “But I wanted to die vibrant and kicking.” Ball one. This was going to be harder than I thought.

“I know. But people with cancer don’t usually die that way. If you want to go out vibrant and kicking it’s best to have a massive heart attack while doing the cha-cha.”

She smiled. Don’t think it’s easy to say stuff like this. But as the Closer you know what your job is and you have to do it. The only reason I could say it was that it true and not saying it would hurt her even more.

I continued my farewell. “I always looked forward to seeing you in the clinic for chemo. I loved talking with you and your husband. But I know it sucked for you.”

“No, no! It didn’t—it wasn’t bad for me! I looked forward to seeing you too!” In spite of all the pain meds on board, she was still the gracious hostess. “I loved talking about books, and wigs and jewelry and praying with you. Thank you so much for being there for me.” That sounded like a good-bye. Strike one.

For every chemo she received, I had laid my hands on the chemo bag and prayed over it. My prayer was usually something like, “May this chemo help her body remember how to heal itself.” Her body had healed itself for six years, which is pretty good for angiosarcoma.

She adjusted her wig and said, “I just don’t want to give up hope.” Ball two.

What does this mean, “to give up hope?” I hear this all the time, as if accepting reality is some moral failing. As if it’s not possible to both accept the reality while hoping for a miracle healing.

“What are you hoping for?” I asked.

Silence. For a long time. Strike two.

“Perhaps what you’re hoping for has changed,” I said. “Maybe it’s time to hope for a peaceful death, or comfort for your family or hope that you’ll be able to let go gracefully and gently.”

I waited a moment before saying, “I think it takes more courage to let go graciously—“ I opened my palms gently, “than to hold on tightly.” I clenched my fists until my knuckles were white.

She stared at my hands and tears rolled down her face. “All right. But I’d rather be doing the cha-cha.”

Strike three—and my turn to cry.

Sisters Are The Best Medicine

I'm sure my I.Q. is lower because my sister was just here and I laughed my brains out for five days straight. Seriously. I looked like this photo 90% of the time. Well, okay, maybe I didn't look quite this good. (David Belisle took this as a possible cover photo for the paperback coming out this Fall.)

Lynie accompanied me to a breast cancer conference in Denver. We had a blast eating dinner in the hotel, shopping, drinking tea in bed and talking at night, drinking coffee in bed and talking in the morning.
I really cannot explain why I feel so refreshed and renewed. I've come back from other conferences tired and sick of cancer. So I can only guess that it was because Lynie was there.

I was really losing my mojo for work: sick of all the technological changes that were adding hours to our days and fed up with administrative duties that made me want to scream. When I received an e-mail telling me that I needed to come in for my annual TB test, I thought perhaps I should burn down the employee health building. I felt as if I just couldn't fit one more thing into my day. When was I supposed to see patients?

I missed my happy self. And yes, I suppose it was also because a month before I went off all my hot flash meds which are really anti-depressants. Like many cancer survivors, I was just sick of taking pills. Besides, I was, as my oncologist said, on "homeopathic" doses: 37.5 mg. of Effexor XR in the day and 25 mg. of Trazodone at night. Since the doses were so tiny I simply stopped taking them. I couldn't believe the sadness and rage I felt a few days a later.

I now know that I should have taken them every other day for a while. But because I was taking them for hot flashes, it never occurred to me that they might be affecting my moods. Because when you take an antidepressant for hot flashes, how does your body know? While I was on them, I would have told you that I perfectly fine---well, maybe not quite as sharp as I used to be. But who is?

But once I stopped taking them, I realized that the world is going to hell in a handbasket and I can't do a thing about it. And did I mention all the reckless morons on the Burke-Gilman trail who are trying to run me down on my bike? And horrible lighting in my hole of an office?

Funny I never noticed any of this before.

So it took a good month to get those drugs out of my system. And then I got a good whopping dose of Lynie and every since then I've been right as rain. I knew I was back to my old self when we were on the plane home and the guy in front of me had his armrest up, with all the volume buttons staring me in the face, taunting me, tempting me.

I poked Lynie. I silently pointed to the buttons. Her eyes widened. Then I pushed the volume button all the way to twelve, which is the highest it can go. We were laughing that kind of wheezy, silent laughter that made us weep and jerk like widows keening at a grave.

The guy never put his headphones on, but every time we looked at the armrest we fell apart laughing. The flight attendant came down the aisle and I expected her to say, "You girls go to your rooms right now!"

But she just said, "Seat belts?"

I would have answered, but a hot flash came on. Yes, the hot flashes are back, but so is my mind. They are not as bad as they were a year ago, so I'm just going to deal. And if things get really bad, I'll go visit my sister.

Report Card

"I can't believe all these people who have just come out of the woodwork to help us!" This coming from a young mom with breast cancer.

"Well," I said, "Getting a cancer diagnosis is like getting a report card on how you've treated people, on what kind of person you've been all these years. So it sounds like you and your husband are getting straight A's."

She smiled and then asked, "But what about the people who seemed like our friends and now suddenly aren't there?"

I just hate it when one of my brilliant analogies falls apart.

Dumbledore To The Rescue

I’m always looking for new ways to talk about death. The latest was given to me by a patient named Elizabeth who, like myself, is a big Harry Potter fan. She also is the mother of two small children and has an aggressive type of breast cancer.

I’m sure by now you all know that Harry’s mentor Dumbledore died in the next-to-last book. Both Elizabeth and I agreed that what we found so moving and inspiring was Dumbledore’s influence on Harry after Dumbledore’s death.

“You know,” she wrote in an e-mail, “Even though Dumbledore really did die, he continued to “exist” for Harry, not in a supernatural way, but in whatever knowledge, insight, wisdom and courage he gave Harry before he died. I think it’s the same way for us. We can set so much in motion by affecting the way people will think and act as they move through the world. And if you listen hard enough to know who they are and what to give them, people will figure it out without you.”

Of course the “people” to whom she is referring are her children. Elizabeth and I have talked about death before and as she said, “I’m perfectly okay with death, whenever that happens. I suspect I’ll have the easy part. But thinking about my kids without a mommy/protector/secret keeper scares the living crap out of me.”

“What helps you with that?” I asked.

She answered, “When I start to freak out about my kids losing me, I can chant the ever-so-comforting mantra ‘Dumbledore.’ And I think about all the Sirius Blacks, Molly Weasleys, and Remus Lupins who would love and care for my kids because I convinced them to love us, and even the reluctant Snapes and Aberforths who would help them because I'm going to convince them they must. And course my husband would be pretty reliable too.”

Almost every parent I meet considers their kids to be special. Harry Potter is special and he is also an orphan and that is the fear of every parent with cancer—that their kids will be without a mom or without a dad.

I want to comfort other patients and explain to them about Dumbledore “existing” after he died and that they will too. I want to urge them to look for the Molly Weasleys and Remus Lupins in their lives.

But many people haven’t read Harry Potter.
So I’m thinking Harry Potter should be required reading for every parent with cancer.

Or just anybody.

How Not To Be

I've been watching, "What Not To Wear" while I work out on my exercise bike. It's mildly entertaining, but here's the show I'd really like to see: "How Not To Be."

Voice over: Welcome to, “How Not To Be!” On today’s show we have a woman who is disgruntled, whiny and indignant. The gift shop at her clinic won’t carry her book because she is an employee! Today’s hosts are Guatama Buddha and Jesus from Nazareth.

Jesus: We’ve been filming her for the past week. In this clip we see her in the gift shop talking to the managers.

Debra: Hi! Where’s my book? You don’t have my book here!

Manager: Soon, soon!

Debra: Wow—I can’t help but notice that you’ve got five other books from my publisher. One of them is even a book by a doctor at Harborview! And you didn’t order mine? It's about cancer! Patients love it! It will help them!

Manager: Soon, soon!

Buddha: Jesus!

Jesus: What?

Buddha: No, I just meant—well, she certainly is persistent. In this next clip we see her talking to her boss.

Boss: By the way, the rules are that they can’t sell your book in the gift shop because you’re an employee.

Debra: Criminy! It’s book about cancer, about this very place. In fact, it’s a great big valentine to this clinic. If they should ever make an exception, it should be for this book!

Boss: (shaking his head) Those are the rules.

Debra: You know, Boss, I know the chain-of-command and I understand that you are my direct supervisor, but you know what my dream scenario is? It would be that several administrators over you would call me in and say, “Debra, we love your book! And we’re so sorry we can’t carry it in the gift shop.”

Boss: I’m sorry.

Buddha: Well, cue the violins!

Jesus: (sarcastically) Yeah, wow, my heart is breaking.

Buddha: In our final clip, here she is complaining to one of her fellow chaplains.

Debra: So they said everyone wants the gift shop to sell their stuff: jewelry, cards, etc. If they did it for me, they'd have to do it for everyone.

Chaplain: But this book can help our patients! Do you think any of the administrators even read it?

Debra: I doubt it. I even gave one of them an advance copy, a bound galley and I didn’t hear a word. Well, you know, a prophet has no honor in her own country.

Jesus: Hey! That’s one of my lines! Funny how people seem to remember only the scripture that supports their position.

Buddha: Tell me about it! You should hear how people bring up “non-attachment” when they’re dumping someone.

Jesus: (laughing) I thought that was the only kind of file that Buddhists will e-mail—you know: non-attachments. Ha-ha-ha-ha! Get it?

Buddha: Jesus Christ!

Jesus: What?

Buddha: So let’s go find Debra and see if we can break up her Pity Party.

[Cut to Debra dozing on the couch while waiting for her husband to come home. There is a half-empty glass of wine on the coffee table.]

Jesus: I see the wine, but where’s the bread?

Debra: (waking up) Huh, wah? Oh, you guys!

Jesus and Buddha: Yes, dear, we’re here from “How Not To Be!”

Debra: Oh, man. Who nominated me?

Buddha: Your No Self.

Jesus: Your Inner Soul

Buddha: Your Spacious Awareness

Jesus: The Holy Spirit

Buddha: Pure Consciousness

Jesus: Seraphim and Chera-

Debra: (interrupting) Whatever. What’s the problem?

Jesus: What’s the problem? Well, first of all, how much wine have you had?

Debra: Just half a glass. I mean you know, “Drink some wine for thy stomach’s sake,” and all that.

Jesus: (to Buddha) See what I mean about scripture? (to Debra) I didn’t say that—that was that boozer Paul writing to Timothy. Anyway, let’s take a look at what’s hanging in your Anxiety Closet. Buddha?

Buddha: Oh, my God! So much of this went out in your twenties! Righteous indignation, self-pity, anger, unappreciated, arrogance, vengeful.

Debra: Wait--that’s not really vengeful. That’s wait-‘til-I-win-a-big-writing-prize-then-they’ll-want-my-book-in-their-stupid-gift-shop.

Jesus: Well, clearly Buddha you haven’t mentioned childish, juvenile and deluded! Listen, honey, it’s all gotta go!

Debra: What? Can’t I just keep righteous indignation?

Buddha and Jesus: No!

Buddha: Okay, we’re giving you five thousand years of sacred scripture to go through. And you’ve got to come back with things that replace all that crap in your Anxiety Closet.

Debra: (grumbling) Fine!

[Cut to Jesus and Buddha watching a video of Debra on their laptop.]

Buddha: (happily) Well, there she is reading about the Four Noble Truths.

Jesus: And yes, I see she has the Gospels open and next to that the Bhagavad Gita. But wait!

Buddha: Oh, Lord!

Jesus: Yes?

Buddha: She's reading her own book! We told her sacred scriptures!

Jesus: Do you think she believes her own book is a sacred?

Buddha: We’ll find out after this!

[Commercial break featuring the show "Project Fun Day" in which people compete to inject a little fun into the day of a down-trodden person. Hint: provide food, water, clothing and shelter first!]

Jesus: We’re back! Let’s bring Debra out and see what she’s found!

Debra: First of all I had to find compassion for myself because once I started thinking about it all I realized how unevolved I am and then I felt ashamed of myself.

Buddha: Yes, yes, compassion for yourself—very Buddhist.

Debra: And I saw that staying angry is getting me nowhere. In the Psalm 37 I read,

"The angry ones draw their swords, the angry ones aim their bows
To put down the poor and the weakened and to kill those who walk on the path of righteousness.
But their sword hits their own heart, their bows will be broken.
With his poverty, the righteous one is richer than all the angry ones in their abundance."

Jesus: (grinning and high fiveing her) Shut up! Love those Psalms.

Debra: Then I read about the Eight Wordly Conditions: Gain and loss, praise and blame, pleasure and pain, fame and disrepute and we’re all grasping after gain, praise, pleasure and fame 24/7.

Buddha: Yes, you go girl! Very important to understand.

Debra: Then I read: "To be angry is to let others' mistakes punish yourself. To forgive others is to be good to yourself.” So I’ve forgiven them and that's good for me!

Buddha: And we have to ask why you were reading your own book It's Not About The Hair.

Debra: In the introduction I do go on about being whiny and tragic and stuck. So I’m taking my own advice and letting go.

Jesus: So you’re letting go of this whole book-in-the-gift shop thing?

Debra: I’m letting go of my emotions around it all. The Bhagavad Gita reminds me that I’m entitled to my actions, but I have to let go of the fruit of my actions.

Jesus: Does that mean that you’re going to take action around this?

Debra: Stay tuned!

Buddha: Good God!

Jesus: Yes?

Take Note

Just when I think I'm all totally grown up and able to clean out my closets and basement and purge my life of extraneous crap, I run into something I've been saving since sixth grade. And I can't throw it away. It's a note that was somehow intercepted by my friend Russell who got it from his friend Mike.

Background: I had a huge crush on Dan (the subject of the note) since fourth grade. We were good friends because in spite of the fact that I talked a lot, I also listened. So that made me the confidant of almost all the boys because they could tell me with whom they wanted to go steady or were going to ask to go steady (whatever that meant!) and up with whom they were breaking. (I'm pretty proud that I did not end that sentence with a preposition. Where are you Mr. Scheckler?)

ANYway, Katy and Martha were two girls in my class who were best friends. What I remember about Martha is that she talked about how she put her pubic hair in doll hair curlers. What I remember about Katy is that she had beautiful handwriting. They too had a crush on Dan until THIS NOTE.

In case you can't read it:

Dear Mike,

Don't tell Dan Our dreams. You can tell him we are loseing [sic] interest in him because he doesn't like us anymore and he loves Debbie Jarvis. We would like him if he liked us. (Tell us what he says!) We would tell you more but its [sic] embarrasing [sic]("forget it" is crossed out). Don't show any body [sic] this note, please.

From, Martha and Katy F.

I remember getting such a thrill when I read that. He loves Debbie Jarvis? He loves me? He loves me?

Of course everyone saw this note including Dan and that's when he stopped talking to me. He mostly talked to me about "loving" Nancy G., but now he didn't want anyone to think he "loved" me. But for one day I believed that I was the object of his affection. I read that note over and over. And in a very weird way, reading it now still thrills me, but for a different reason.

It thrills me because I can see how from the beginning, as far back as I can remember, kids, people liked to talk to me about their secrets, their desires, their hopes, their fears. This is pretty much what I do now, just be a friend and listen. I hated this in Jr. High because I wanted a boyfriend, not a "friend" friend. Thank God I went to a different high school from my childhood friends. Nobody at the new high school knew I was the girl who was "just a friend" to all the guys---although that's how High School turned out too.

This note takes on a special poignancy because a couple months ago I reconnected with an elementary school friend who let me know that another boy on whom I had a crush was still living in the area. He married his high school sweetheart and she had just had a recurrence of cancer. I immediately sent them a copy of my book. But last night I found out that she is dying and has just entered the hospice program.

How can this be? I can only see him and his wife as Jr. High school students and Jr. High kids don't die of cancer. News Flash, Jarv: You're not in Jr. High school anymore. My friend requested prayers for them. So of course I will pray for them, that they would have courage, and peace and comfort and ease.

I'm keeping that note and I love that forty years later I can still be a "friend" friend and offer up prayers. I wouldn't want it any other way.

Undetached

Leap year! I'll take this extra day to tell you about a question I got asked this week. I had just given a talk at the University of Washington and an audience member asked me how I stayed detached from my work.

"I'm not detached," I said. "I don't mind going home and thinking about all the people I've met in the clinic."

I just figure that there is something for me in every encounter and it's up to me to mine that experience for all it's worth. If I don't think there is something for me in every patient encounter then I'm going to get burned out pretty quickly. So that means I think about my day at home.

My model is Mr. Jesus who was never detached. Talk about no boundaries! He was eating dinner with whores and IRS men; letting little children climb all over him and going out fishing with the guys.

Doesn't seem detached to me.

I know this model isn't for everyone but I don't think I could do it any other way. That also means I've had "patients" over for dinner and selectively given out my home phone number. No regrets so far.

McGreedy

A couple weeks ago I heard Jim Wallis of Sojourners magazine says something like, "We don't lack the resources for there to be enough for everyone in the world. What we lack is the will and the incentive."

Right on, Jim! It's all about greed, isn't it?

It's a pretty well known concept that having some measure of inner peace is just as important as advocating for world peace. You know, peace begins at home. Which got me to thinking about my own greed--at home.

How is the desire for a huge company to make profit, any different from my desire to have biggest piece of cheese on the plate? Or one more piece of cheese despite the fact that my belly is full? (But my mouth wants more.)

I don't think it's all that different. But here's the thing: it's not as if only developed nations have greedy people. The poor are greedy too. Humans are greedy and the continual challenge is to overcome our own greedy natures. Or decide to be greedy in a different way.

I, for one, am working on being greedy for silence, for peace, for laughter, for justice, for God.

I'll let you know how this works out.

Pardon My Begging

A friend just wrote to me that she has been reluctant to go to India because she couldn't handle the poverty. Well, the poverty will be there whether you go or not. It’s a question of do you want to deal with your feelings of guilt, outrage, helplessness, confusion, despair and wonder?

I can’t get the image of a little girl pressed against the car window. She was gesturing to us to give her something to eat. Then she put her hands together in namaste on her forehead and pressed them against the window. And there were those dirty, little brown fingers pushed against the glass. And we didn’t have any rupees. We didn’t have anything. She wasn’t angry, she was smiling and inviting. I wanted to give her something. I wanted to put her in the car, take her back to hotel and give her a bath.

Then the light changed and we went another mile and there was another group of kids. This time Wes dug around and found a few McVitie’s biscuits in the bottom of his pack. A little boy was pounding on his window, not as sweet as my little girl. The light changed. Wes rolled down the window and gave him the biscuits. He looked at the biscuits and threw them back into the car.

I swear to God here was my first thought: Beggars can’t be choosers.

Wes turned to me and said, "I think he wanted money."

A few days later I’m back in Seattle getting crown work done. It’s a two hour job so I asked for the nitrous oxide. The assistant put the mask on my face and I said, “Oh, I don’t remember nitrous having an odor.”

“It doesn’t. That’s our peach-scented mask!”

Little brown fingers pressed against the glass.

After a minute it became clear the mask was too big. “I’ll give you the pediatric mask,” the assistant said. “It’s grape-scented.” Then she opened up a tube of lip balm and said, “This is your lip balm, it’s yours to take home, but I’ll be applying it on your lips because your mouth is going to get stretched out.”

Little brown fingers pressed against the glass.

I just heard last night that Mitt Romney spent 40 million dollars on his campaign. I pay three dollars a can for dog food. The dentist gives me a grape-scented nitrous mask and my own lip balm.

Here’s the thing about going to India and seeing all the poverty: you don't come home with answers, but it makes you question.

Little brown fingers pressed against the glass.

A Dutiful Wife

So we just returned from India. We were gone only ten days which is short considering it takes about two and a half days to get there. Wes taught for four days at a science conference held at the Indian School of Business in Hyderabad. As a Dutiful Wife I was forced to go along with him and spent most of my time swimming and reading, "A Suitable Boy" by Vikram Seth. It was only 1, 474 pages. The title of my next book will be, "A Dutiful Wife" and it will be 1,475 pages.

We secretly ate in the student cafeteria whenever we could. It was fun being with the students and I liked being able to refill my own coffee. The Faculty Dining Hall had white table clothes and I was forever trying to remember if my bread plate was the one on my left or my right. Plus there were all these waiters whisking things away. I was acutely aware of the beggar children just a few miles from campus, so I was very uncomfortable with all this formal dining. In fact, I was uncomfortable dining at all. (More on that later.)



And here is the amazing Taj Mahal at sunrise. I thought it was a palace, but it's really a mausoleum. Yes, that's right. When you finally get inside, the actual room is the size of a large McDonald's restroom and there is the tomb of Mumtaz Mahal ("Chosen One of the Palace") and her husband Shah Jahan ("He Who Builds A Really Amazing Mausoleum For His Wife").

It turns out that Mumtaz was the love of his life, soul mate, friend, lover, first wife. And yeah, sure he had a harem but I'm assuming they were for when Mumtaz was hugely pregnant or having her period. She bore him fourteen children in seventeen years.

So she dies giving birth to their fourteenth child and he is bereft. Despairing. Since Porshes weren't yet invented, he decides to build--big time. But here's my question: Shah, why did you wait until after she was dead to build her this breathtaking place?

Why wait to say, "I love you"?

I saw a patient last week who when her husband left the room told me, "My husband has been so attentive and concerned. He insists on coming to every chemo with me. I know he loves me, but he's never been so out there with it."

He's scared witless, I thought. And sure enough, when we prayed together at the end of my visit, he was holding my hand so tightly my fingers had indents from my rings. He whispered, "Amen" after me and tears rolled down his cheeks.

As Wes and I walked back from the Taj Mahal to our hotel, he asked me, "Well, what did you think?"

"Don't wait until I'm dead," I answered.

Power Outrage

The other night my friend Lisa had dinner with us. She was talking about an elderly woman who told her, “My sixties were my favorite decade. I didn’t give a shit what anyone thought and I felt totally empowered!”

I said, "Wow, that's great to hear! I can't wait!"

Wes said, “If Debra gets any more empowered she’ll be a sub-station.”

Which makes me wonder: can someone be too empowered? Does Wes think “empowered” is synonymous with “bossy?” And exactly what is a sub-station?

Flashback to June 12, 2005: It was four days before my first chemotherapy and the impending taste bud destruction. For my “Last Supper” I chose Lola, a modern Greek restaurant. That means you can get grilled octopus and dolmades, but you can also get high-tech martinis and wild Pacific prawns.

Our server was young and beautiful and her dark hair was rinsed cherry red. She cheerily explained the specials and asked if we had any questions. Having just had a mastectomy, all I could think was, “Have you had your mammogram?”

Instead I blurted out, “Of all the restaurants in Seattle, this is the one I chose for my last meal before chemo.”

She blinked for a few moments and then smiled and said, “I’m so glad you chose to come here.”

Since I was feeling like I was about to be sacrificed, I considered the lamb for my entrée. But I pushed away the dramatic mental images of my martyrdom and reminded myself, “Cancer is the enemy. Chemo is the defense.”

So I chose something I thought was symbolic of my new attitude: goat; cider braised with honeycrisp apples, roasted shallots, and celery salad. It was divine and I say that as an ordained minister and experienced foodie.

Our awareness that this was our last dinner out before six months of unknown chemo side-effects made every bite, sip, scent and sound sublime.

“This is the best dinner I’ve ever eaten,” I said holding hands across the table with Wes. He could only nod since his mouth was filled with chickpea fries, but I saw his eyes well up.

Our server came back to ask if we wanted dessert. “Just the check,” Wes answered.

She gave us a big smile and said, “You’re welcome to pay next time you come in. This one is on the house.”
We didn’t leave for another twenty minutes because we couldn’t stop crying.

So this December was our 22nd wedding anniversary and the next day was my two year end-of-chemo anniversary. “Let’s go to Lola!” I said to Wes.

I made the reservations and then, after a moment’s hesitation, told the hostess our experience from two years before. “I know it’s crazy,” I said. “But is she still there? She had cherry red hair.”

“Hold on.” I was on hold for a few moments and then someone picked up.

“I remember you,” the voice said.

It was her—Sabrina our server who is now a manager! We were coming in Friday night which is the only night she managed at Lola. Coincidence? I think not!

We were a party of six and Sabrina bought our appetizers and desserts. I gave her a copy of It's Not About the Hair. We ate, we drank, we laughed, gratitude flowing faster than wine. I ordered the goat and it was as delicious as I remembered.

Before we left I hugged Sabrina and said, “You just don’t know how many times I’ve told that story of my Last Supper.”

“I’ve told the story too!” she said. “I understand about the eating because my mom had chemo.”

I was stunned. “Gosh,” I said. “I didn’t realize that. How is your mom doing?”

She hesitated a moment. “She died—when I was little. But I still remember.”

I gave her another, longer hug. Clearly, in the few years they were together, her mother had taught her about love.

No wonder that night had felt like the Last Supper:

Do this in remembrance of me.

And she had.

He Lives!

Max lives! He is going to be okay and apologies to those of you who thought he died because I hadn't posted in a while. It took over our lives for three weeks, but yesterday his wounds healed up enough to take off the hateful Cone! It will take a while for his hair to grow back, but we can live with that.

Here he is in his Christmas outfit, a gift from my boss Stephen and his family. The shirt is perfect--it hides his scars and keeps him warm.

The first few weeks after his surgery we let him sleep on the bed because he was wearing the hateful Cone. But that meant he slept on me. On my chest. On my belly. The first week he wanted to be anywhere on my core. Maybe because I felt as if I had a piece of my heart torn out. And a piece of my soul. Some people thought he was afraid. But I think he was healing me.